


Kneaded

by meaninglessblah



Series: Prompts & Fills [11]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort No Hurt, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27237769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Slade scowls. “Having fun?”“Always,” Clark answers without a hint of embarrassment.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Slade Wilson
Series: Prompts & Fills [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1987264
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	Kneaded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OkayAristotle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkayAristotle/gifts).



> A short gift fic moved over from Tumblr, to thank OkayAristotle for taking the time to organise all their WIPs. Hopefully they're still nice and tidy <3

A nose nudges into the soft locks that line Slade’s neck, lips trailing softly over heated skin. He groans irritably and twists into the pillow he’s slumped over, stilling when it ignites the more persistent of his bruises and draws two firm hands down to his hips. 

“You’re a fool,” that deep timbre breathes into his flesh, and Slade suppresses the shiver that wants to take him. Clenches his hands into the sheets and passes it off as a hiss when his lover’s hands massage into the dimples of his lower back. 

“Don’t see you being the breadwinner with that reporter’s paycheck,” Slade mumbles. That grip shifts, half in reprimand, digging circles into the tender flesh that lines his recently-fractured spine. Slade tenses, a moan catching in his throat before the tension eases and he can slump into the sensation, boneless. 

Clark hums a note, presses another gentle kiss to the raise of his vertebra, and continues his slow ministrations down Slade’s bare back. “Thought I’d try the housewife routine,” he says, and Slade can tell he’s smiling, his tone indolent and teasing. It should make him irritated. It doesn’t. 

“Is that so?” 

“Mmhmm.” A pause, as those enduring thumbs press into the tender muscles bunched beneath his shoulder blade. Slade buries his face into the white linen, inhaling raggedly as Clark navigates his injuries with focused ease. “Someone has to be here to take care of you.” 

Slade frowns, grunting a petulant note. Shifts his hips beneath Clark’s bulk, moreso to note where exactly the man is. Old habits and all that. His bare flesh presses up against a clothed knee, and Slade slumps again, satisfied. “Not all of us can be indestructible metahumans with a perfect smile. This is as close as the rest of us get.” 

He can feel the bruising quality of Clark’s smile, even before he leans down to press lips between Slade’s shoulder blades. “You think my smile is perfect?” 

Slade grumbles something wholly unintelligible and winces into the sheets. Clark’s fingers lift after a moment, warm palms smoothing down the expanse of his back to land somewhere… much less professional. 

He scowls. “Having fun?” 

“Always,” Clark answers without a hint of embarrassment, kneading the firm flesh slowly. Slade tries to focus on anything other than the man’s radiating humour, his attention drawn to the single, cold spot of metal pressed against his flesh. “I enjoy taking care of you.” 

“Do you,” Slade replies. 

Those lips fall to kiss the apex of Slade’s left buttock, and he turns to glare over his shoulder at Clark, still poised in that perfect pucker, blue eyes gleaming where they fix on Slade’s own. As he watches, Clark shifts, obnoxiously slowly, to kiss the other. 

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” Slade murmurs between stiff jaws. 

“Of course,” Clark responds, barely more than a breath. “I think you are, too.” 

Before Slade can give that the scathing response that deserves, Clark is standing and pulling his hands away. For a moment, Slade fumbles, bereft. 

He turns onto his side, ignoring the very aggrieved protest of his fractured ribs to cast Clark an incredulous, demanding look. Clark’s expression is impeccably stern, all that solemnity pulled into that firm jaw, and Slade forces himself to meet those eyes again after a long moment. 

“Going somewhere?” 

“You need bed rest,” Clark provides, and Slade does not misinterpret the sparkle in his eyes. His lips pull into a downturn that is countered by Clark’s eyes warming. “You said so yourself; you’re not as indestructible as you claim to be. You need time to heal.” 

“Since when have you ever handled me with this much fragility?” Slade sneers, and twists onto his back, propped up on his elbows. The sheets pool about his calves, draped delicately over unyielding muscle, and Slade does not spend the next few precious seconds biting down the hard whine that wants to leave his throat. 

Clark doesn’t approach, but he does regard Slade with a cool air. “That looked like it hurt.” 

Slade forces his lungs to expand, presses back the caged scream and only unwinds his jaw when he’s sure it’s safe to do so. “Hardly,” he answers severely, but has to pause again to wrestle down the urge to wince when his body flares with a fresh, magmatic wave of pain. 

He has no doubt that Clark can hear the rapid beat of his pulse, his body demanding reprieve as Slade forces himself to meet that cool blue stare with impassivity. When Clark speaks, his tone is soft and considerate in every way that Slade adores and envies. 

“Have you always been this self-deprecating, love?” 

“I prefer ‘self-sacrificing’.” 

“You would.” 

“Says the Man of Steel. At least I _try_ to dodge the bullets.” 

Clark hums a disapproving note, bending a knee to lower himself onto the bed. Slade smothers the fresh flare at the jostling, and shifts aside to give him room. Can’t quite smother to yelp of surprise when one steel-corded arm slips beneath his waist and lifts him effortlessly, delicately, onto the man’s bulk. 

He’s rearranged, and Slade has the patience to let it be, no matter how much he feels like he’s being treated as some misbehaving pet. When Clark’s finally satisfied that none of his ribs or bruises are taking any unnecessary strain, he strokes gentle fingers up the curve of Slade’s spine. Let’s them still on the back of Slade’s head where it pillows on the man’s chest, threading into his locks. 

He lets loose a short puff of air, schooling his tone into something severe. “I have a reputation, you know.” 

“I’m sure you do,” Clark responds, and Slade bleeds into the rumble of that chest, letting his eyes slip closed. Reminds himself that he doesn’t always have to be so prickly, or such a prick. 

Those broad, warm palms smooth down Slade’s spine, tickling into the dimples of his lower back as he luxuriates on Clark’s frame. It’s… a reprieve, having someone who can handle Slade so wholly, who doesn’t find him too hard, or too strong, or too sharp. It makes a high little laugh bubble in Slade’s throat, that with all his flaws and all his history, the universe gave him someone who considers Slade _delicate._

Clark turns soft lips to Slade’s ear, making heat rise where they trail along his temple. “What are you thinking about, love?” 

“How rock solid you are,” Slade drawls without opening his eyes. He’s not sure when he closed them, but the cool darkness is refreshing. 

Clark smiles at the mocking tone. Turns to press a kiss to Slade’s closed eyelid. “Ironic. I was just thinking about how fragile you are.” 

Slade’s nose scrunches at that, a frown etching onto his brow. There’s a growl beneath his timbre when he murmurs, “Not fragile.” 

Clark’s touch dances over his ribcage, and Slade purposefully _doesn’t_ flinch beneath the twinge of pain, unwilling to concede ground. Not that it matters; Clark can read him as well as any book. 

“You need to take better care of yourself,” Clark says gently. 

“That’s your job.” 

The rumble of laughter against Slade’s cheek is nearly enough to make him purr. His lips still twitch up at the corners, and he knows Clark feels it, hidden as it is. The man sounds like sunshine, and Slade appreciates the afternoon’s glow as much as the blistering scorch. 

Those warm hands brush over the arches of Slade’s hips, slipping lower to take two firm handfuls, and Slade scoffs softly. When he cracks his eyelids open, Clark is reclined back against the pillows, expression arranged into a caricature of peaceful slumber, with the stillness to match. 

“You’re not fooling anyone,” Slade informs him, but tucks his knee up beside the man’s hip, if only to assure himself that he’s securely in the man’s hold. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clark hums back, punctuating it with a luxurious squeeze. Slade tilts his head down to press a chaste kiss to the man’s collarbones. 

“Don’t push your luck.” 

“Me? Never.” 

**Author's Note:**

> [](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)   
>    
> 


End file.
